Freia Lockhart's Summer of Awful (23 page)

The woman on the front desk tells us that Mum's been taken to the Intensive Care Unit. “You can go to ICU and find out how she's doing,” she says, “but they might not let you see her.”

Gran mutters under her breath all the way, something about a mother's right to be with her child and jumped-up nurses with superiority complexes. I cross fingers that we get to see Mum before Gran does something to get us kicked out of the building altogether. She marches through the swinging doors marked Intensive Care – Visitors Restricted and is marched straight back out.

“It's strictly one visitor at a time in the ICU,” says the nurse, directing Gran to a row of plastic seats. “I'll let your son-in-law know you're here.”

Gran scowls but sits down. She resumes her muttering. I take the seat next to her even though I'd rather pretend I wasn't with the crazy old lady who's talking to herself. A couple of minutes later Dad comes through the swinging doors. He looks exhausted. Exhausted and terrified. He gives me a sad smile.

“What's happening? How's Gene?” demands Gran.

“She's stable but she still has a very high temperature. They think it's some kind of bacterial infection but they have to wait for the pathology results to know how to treat it.”

“Is she in pain?” I ask, imagining Mum's face twisted in agony.

“She's agitated, but they've given her a sedative, so she's barely awake. To be honest, I'm not sure she knows what's going on.” As Dad speaks, his face crumples and his shoulders hunch.

I stand and hug him as tightly as I can. “She'll be okay,” I say, trying to sound as if I believe it.

The Rocky theme song makes us both jump.

“Bloody Archie,” says Gran, pulling her phone from her handbag. “I said I'd call you later,” she barks without saying hello. Then, “Oh. Sorry, Mrs Biggie, I mean, Mrs Biggins. I thought you were someone else … Yes, he's here.”

She holds the phone out to Dad who puts it cautiously to his ear, as if he's scared it might bite him. He gets as far in the conversation as “Hello?” before the nurse returns, points to the Switch Off Your Phone sign and nods to the door that leads back to the main foyer. As the door swings behind him, Dad says, “He's done
what
?”

Dad returns a few minutes later. “That was Paul's mum,” he says, as if we didn't already know. “Ziggy's at the police station.”

“What for?” I ask.

“I don't know. Mrs Biggins is in a panic; she wasn't making much sense – something about vandalism and a park ranger. I have to go to the station so they can interview him.”

“But what about Mum? What if something happens to her while you're gone?”

“Freia's right,” says Gran. “You should stay here and I'll look after Ziggy. I've seen enough of those LA cop shows to know when they're intimidating the suspect.”

“Thanks, Thelma, but I really think I should go. If anything happens to Ziggy, Gene will be furious with me.”

Gran makes Dad take her phone with him so we can call if there's any news about Mum. “And if Archie calls, tell him I'm on a hot date,” she says with an evil cackle.

After Dad leaves, the nurse says one of us can go in and see Mum.

“You go,” I tell Gran. “I should let Siouxsie know what's going on.” Besides, I'm scared of seeing Mum by myself.

You'd think a building that bans the use of mobiles would be brimming with payphones, but I have to go all the way to obstetrics on the other side of the hospital before I find one. After the clinical whiteness of the ICU, the blue and pink flowers that cover the walls of the waiting room feel far too bright and cheerful.

Facing the wall, I dial the number on autopilot.

“This is Daniel. I'm either busy or screening my calls. Leave a message.”

What can I say?
I miss you. I need you
. I hang up and dig the crumpled scrap of paper from my pocket.

“Do you want me to come to the hospital?” Siouxsie asks when I explain what's happened.

“Thanks, but I'll be okay.” I promise to call her if there's any news and put the receiver down. Then I pick it up again.

“This is Daniel. I'm either busy or screening my calls …”

Gran's back on the plastic seat when I return to ICU. If she hadn't got her knitting out while I was gone, I'd swear she hadn't moved.

“I thought you were going in to see Mum.”

“I did – she looks terrible. They've got her hooked up to a million monitors and all of them are beeping like crazy. It's lucky they've knocked her out or she'd have a splitting headache, I know I did after five minutes. If you're going in, I suggest you stick some tissue in your ears.”

I glance towards the ward. Perhaps I won't go in. From what Dad said, Mum's so out of it she won't even know I've been. It's enough that I'm here, isn't it? After whatever Ziggy's got himself into, I'm already coming out of tonight looking like the golden child.

“Do you want me to ask the nurse if I can go in with you?” asks Gran. “I'm sure if I explain–”

“No, it's okay. I'll go by myself.”

I turn and push through the doors to the Intensive Care Unit before I can change my mind. And promptly want to walk straight back out again. I'd figured it'd be depressing to see Mum in there, hooked up to machines and possibly in pain from whatever's attacking her body from the inside, but I hadn't reckoned on having to see other patients in the same – or worse – state. The beds are partitioned only by thin fabric screens, most of which are open at the front. Beneath the regular beating of heart monitors and something that sounds like an air compressor and the occasional beep-beep-beep of a monitor that needs attention is a chorus of rasping breaths, low groans and the occasional gasp of pain.

“Are you Gene's daughter?” asks the nurse. I nod. “My name's Tim. Follow me.”

On the way to Mum's bed, Tim tells me that she looks worse than she is and the doctors are confident that as soon as they have the pathology results back they'll be able to start treating the infection aggressively. As we walk I keep my eyes glued to his back so that I can't accidentally see into one of the other cubicles.

“Here she is,” says Tim, stopping at the second-last bed on the left. “She's not really conscious of what's happening around her at the moment, so she might not realise it's you, but don't let that put you off. You can hold her hand – the one without the drip – and even if it seems like she doesn't understand what you're saying, studies have shown that hearing familiar voices helps with patient recovery.” He pulls the curtain on his way out, leaving me standing at the foot of the bed.

Mum seems smaller than ever. It's partly because they seem to have given her an XXL size hospital gown, but also because everything around her is so big. To her right, a drip with multiple bags on it trickles down the tube to the cannula in the top of her hand. On the left is a monitor that's connected to one of her fingers by a thin wire and a clip. I wonder if the beeps and digital display of squiggly lines and numbers actually mean anything or if hospitals just use these things because people expect to see them after watching so many hospital dramas.

I walk to the left side of the bed and brush Mum's hand with my three middle fingers, being careful not to put any pressure on her skin. Her face is a greyish green, but she doesn't appear to be in pain.

“Hi, Mum,” I whisper. “It's me, Freia.” Her face shows no response. “The nurse said I should talk to you, but I don't know what to say. It sucks that you're sick again just when you'd got home … and this infection they're talking about sounds pretty nasty … I hope it's not because we didn't keep things clean enough at home … Please don't die.”

As the final words leave my mouth, two things happen: Mum's eyelids start twitching like mad and the monitor starts beeping and won't stop. As Tim pulls back the curtain, I snatch my fingers back from Mum's hand.

“I didn't touch anything,” I tell him.

Tim stares at me as if I'm Crazy McCracked and points to the IV stand. “Don't get your tights in a twist, the monitor's just letting me know it's time to change the IV bag.”

“You look like you need a cuppa,” says Gran when I take the plastic seat beside her. “I'll be back in a tick.”

She returns a few minutes later with two plastic cups and hands one to me. “Are you okay?”

“She looks so small compared to all those machines. And her eyelids …”

Gran pats my arm. “I know, Bloss. Drink your tea, you'll feel better.”

The tea is hot and syrupy with sugar. It doesn't make me feel better but drinking it does give me something to do for five minutes. When I finish it I walk to the bin and throw my cup in. That takes up another thirty seconds. It's ten past eight.

Gran has resumed her knitting, apparently unalarmed by the prospect of spending the night in this small sterile space. The click-clack of her needles becomes the beat of the room. I walk the eleven steps from the seats to the doors of the ICU, turn and walk another eleven to the lift, turn again.

“This room is a perfect square,” I announce after completing a couple more laps.

Gran raises her eyes slightly, her hands paused mid-stitch. “Sit down, you're making me dizzy.”

“I can't just sit there. I have to do something.”

Gran pulls another set of needles from her bag. It has what looks like the beginnings of a scarf on it, knitted in bright blue.

“I always keep a spare,” she says, offering it to me. “You never know when someone will need a little distraction, especially once you get to my age. I never go to a doctor's appointment without it, that's for sure.”

“I don't know how,” I say, attempting to hand the bundle back to her.

She ignores me. “Knitting's like riding a bike: once you learn, you never forget. Remember the rhyme I taught you when you were little?” When I shake my head she pulls me down onto the seat next to hers. “In through the bunny hole, around the big tree, out through the bunny hole and off goes she.” As Gran says the rhyme, she guides my hands, pushing the needle in behind the first stitch, drawing the yarn around where the needles meet and then pulling the needle at the back down through the loop that's formed before slipping it off the front needle. The movement takes about ten times longer than when she does it herself, but after she's repeated it a few times she lets go of my hands and I begin to do it on my own.

“There you are, I told you you'd remember. Do a few rows like that and then I'll show you how to purl and you'll be cooking with gas.”

Much as I doubt it, as long as I'm repeating that stupid rhyme there isn't room in my head to think about whether Mum's going to be okay, and if Ziggy's going to get a criminal record and what Dan's doing tonight. Soon, I'm saying the rhyme to the click-clack of Gran's own needles, only it takes five of her stitches for me to make one.